


dark before the dawn

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injured John, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:45:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this used to be chapter seven of 'a proper face off'. i thought this and the next chapter deserved their own work, i will add more chapters soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is set the morning after John and Sherlock finally spend a night in bed together.

The Dark Before Dawn  
by: Edith Matilda Thomas (1854-1925)  
Oh, mystery of the morning gloam,  
Of haunted air, of windless hush!  
Oh, wonder of the deepening dome--  
Afar, still far, the morning's flush!  
My spirit hears, among the spheres,  
The round earth's ever-quickening rush!

 

Although the window's shade was not drawn there was nothing but a streetlight to greet Sherlock this morning. No hungry happy bird or rustling leaves. No sound or movement to dampen his aching mind. No sign of life to anchor himself to. What in God's name had he done? Last night had been the final straw. He had himself aloof and under control until John said those damned words. They seemed to whisper through his soul. To awaken in him this great atrocious want that he had tried for so long to quiet and kill. Last night he was the most pathetic and pitiful form of a man he had ever been. Weak. Weak. Weak.

This had been coming for a long time. Still, that didn't stop the disgusting turn of his stomach. If he wanted to make himself feel better he could just remind himself that nobody he knew would have lasted this long. That, of course, didn't help as he pitied the thought of others feelings. Comparing himself to others was never enough. Life had taught him that when he was young. He was not only different, but with much practice stronger and better than others. Mycroft had long reminded him that caring for someone or something outside yourself made you weak. It seems now that weakness long avoided had fallen upon him.

He knew when it started. He appreciated John from the beginning. The first time they met he had openly offered his phone. He had surprised Sherlock by questioning him. He was worth a second look, but only as an asset. Only as a tool in further work. He was surprised again when John came in handy so early in their relationship. Oh, God, had he started using that word. What he meant was that John had continued to be useful and most entertaining from their meeting on. He fit clumsily into Sherlock's life at first, but had been becoming more solidly stuck in place as time went on. Mycroft had warned him that letting John into every part of his life would render him indispensable. He had ignored the warning, thinking that unlike Mycroft, he never needed anyone enough to have that become a problem. He was wrong.

"You're getting soft, Sherlock" Mycroft had once said on the subject. He was right. He could pinpoint the moment he lost the battle. It really was unintended. He had been holding a pill in one second, and been covered in an orange blanket the next. When he realized that John had been on the other side of the gun he was lost. No one killed for his safety. It wasn't just that though. He knew in that moment, peering over at John, catching his eye and then having him look away. He knew that for some reason that man would stand in front of a bullet for him. He would not just kill, but be killed for Sherlock's safety.

That was when the nightmares began. Almost every night he would see John die for him. He spent his sleeping hours holding his slowly cooling body against his own. Knowing he had done this. Apart from him John Watson would be safe. With him he would always be in danger. That's when he knew that he loved John. He knew because John's safety seemed to matter more to him than his own. Contrary to popular belief, it was not that Sherlock didn't care about his safety, but that he was so confident in himself that nothing he saw could make him fear. He lived a life drenched in danger, feeling no fear what so ever.

His first fear since being a child was for John. Night after night John would die in his arms. He never thought that the deaths he saw at work would ever effect him. Now he saw every one being played out in sick succesion with John it's only victim. This was caring, and it was miserable. He finally got to live out one of his nightmares at Moriarty's hand. That had cemented it. John was to be his. His to care for. His to love. His for life, no matter how long or short that may turn out to be.........


	2. the dawn

The Dark Before Dawn  
by: Edith Matilda Thomas (1854-1925)  
A single leaf, on yonder tree,  
The planet's rush hath felt, hath heard,  
And soon all branches whispering be;  
That whisper wakes the nested bird--  
The song of the thrush, before the blush  
Of Dawn, the dreaming world hath stirred!

 

.......Sherlock is wakened from his thoughts as John stirs beside him. He is suddenly struck by the warmth emanating from this body. He has long ignored the call within him for comfort. That this should feel so right is a mystery. The comfort brought just by the warmth of another body is overwhelming. He lays silent for a while, listening to the breathing beside him. The promise of life so close. The promise that that life could be a part of his. It is almost too much. He focuses on the changing world outside. The horizon bustles with life. The sun sending firelight tendrils into the sky. They search out the night and slay it in it's own home. Stealing away the black and burning up the night. The birds outside have taken note and begin to call to the earth to wake. It would seem to be the birth of the world, and not just of a new day. As the world warms, so does Sherlock's heart.

Finally the feared inevitable happens. John stirs beside him and begins to wake. All this perfect little time could be ruined. All of this beginning to feel right could turn so wrong. Sherlock closes his eyes, steadies his breath and plays asleep. John stretches and yawns. The bed moves and suddenly there is a kiss being laid on Sherlock's forehead. "You don't have to play sleep for me. I can promise you I haven't had my feelings for you change overnight." John says to Sherlock's still body. A blush upon his cheeks is Sherlock's only reply. "There will be tea waiting for you when you feel brave enough to face the dawn." John says as he stands and exits the room.

Perfect, sensible, John has turned what could have been hours of awkwardness into simply a cuppa. Leave it up to the unwavering british male to push things so under the rug that others might trip. So that's that? All of the pain and confusion of Sherlock's last few hours awake amount to a kiss on the head and a cuppa. Well. This he could work with. Sherlock found his robe and went to freshen up.

He stood looking into the mirror, and what stared back at him was not a broken monster of a man. Not someone who has been destroyed by a horrible mistake of an evening. Not a fool or a weakling. Just him. Just Sherlock. His inner turmoil had been so intense that in the back of his mind he was sure it would show to the outside world. He felt so changed but when he looked in the mirror he saw simply his own corporeal form. This was enough to push him on.

In the kitchen John whistled while he filled the kettle with water. This day had been a long time coming, he thought to himself. A smile broadened over his face as he looked for the good earl grey. He was well rested, awake and in love. Nothing could stop him today. Nothing could get in the way of his happiness he thought to himself as a knocking came at the door. 'Now who in the hell would be coming to see us at this hour?' he thought. He went to the door, unlocked the lock and opened it to a non familiar face. "And you would be?...." he said. The stranger smiled and siad only one thing as he stepped through the doorway. "Tell him that Sebastian says hello." The man moved quickly up against John, shoving in the blade as he did. A smile covered the man's face as he left through the still open door.

"I do hope that Lestrade has something worthwhile for us today. That bit about the woman losing her necklace last wednesday was the dullest of the dull if you ask me..." Sherlock said as he entered the living room and saw john sitting on the floor by the open front door. "what the hell are you doing down there?" was all he could come up with as he began to walk up to John. "I seem to have a small problem." John said. "Not sure if I should get up." As Sherlock rounded his frame he saw the butt of the blade sticking out of John's abdomen. "Stay there John, I'm getting help" Sherlock said as he fled out the front door, down the steps and into the biting morning air.

John reached for the hand towel he had been drying his hands with, glad that it had come along for this bizarre little ride. Damn it hurt to move, but John knew there would be blood to stop. He slowly pushed the small towel in around the blade's handle, grimacing at the pain. Just leave it there, safe and sound , he thought. Plug the hole. Stop the damn from overfilling. Was it getting dark in here? Damnit John, get yourself together. This is shock, this is shock, this is shock. He clumsily slipped off his robe and used it to help with the now pouring blood. Just as he began to fall backwards he was caught in Sherlock's arms.

He was back, up the stairs in slow motion, and behind him on the floor in what was probably record time. "I'm here, ambulance is on it's way. Damn it John, don't die on me now that I finally have you." Sherlock whispered. "You've always had me." John said as he slipped out of consciousness. Sherlock knew it could be bad. It could be the worst. He picked up his phone and dialed Mycroft's number.

The line clicked on, and before his brother could say anything Sherlock said "John's been hurt. Ambulance is on the way, but I need you to send over anyone on your team that is good with knife wounds." "Alright, see you at Barts within the half hour" Mycroft replied, and the phone went dead. The sound of sirens filled the room and Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out of her front door. "Nothing to worry about Mrs. H" Sherlock said. When her eyes widened he had to continue. "The ambulance is coming now, please stay out of the way, it seems that John has gone and got himself stabbed." He could see her fear, but she shut her door. As she did a man and a woman with a stretcher tore up the stairs. From then on it was a blur....


	3. crap coffee and disinfectant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is taken to the hospital after being stabbed.

The long hallway stank of disinfectant. It was a welcoming smell to the detective. He and his brother sat in silence, sipping crap coffee and avoiding each others gaze. When Mycroft broke the silence Sherlock winced. 

"I don't suppose you would like to tell me how a knife got lodged in John's abdomen, dear brother?" Mycroft said in a voice that edged on disinterested. 

"I assure you that if I knew who had done this I would have brought them to justice by now." Sherlock hissed. 

"Hm...justice, how pedestrian. I expect more from you Sherlock. When you _do_ find out who it was, assuming you do, bring the news to me first. I would like to deal with them myself. I've become a bit fond of our Dr. Watson as of late." Sherlock's eye flitted up with confusion to look into Mycroft's face. "Do, relax Sherlock, you're gay the brother, not I." Mycroft dismissed. Sherlock huffed and looked back at his feet. Mycroft continued, "I just happen to appreciate the effect the good doctor has on you. He's an anti-psychotic that can make tea, and I welcome that." 

"I don't see a problem with that, just as long as your _appreciation_ takes place across the room." Sherlock said somewhat under his breath.

The two men sat in silence for another twenty minutes before a young man with sweat tousled hair and bloody scrubs entered the hallway. 

"Hello gents, I'm Doctor Willis." The man said in a singsong voice. Mycroft rose and took the man's hand. 

"Mycroft Holmes. I've heard good things Doctor Willis, don't disappoint me." The man blanched a bit at the mention of the name, but got hold of himself quickly. 

"Yes, I see. Of course. Doctor Watson is done with surgery, and is being transported to a private room on the second floor. The surgery went well, and he can be expected to recover within the month." The doctor said. Sherlock burst to his feet. 

"A MONTH?!? How am I supposed to function without him for a month? When can he go home?" Sherlock demanded, shaking visibly and almost foaming from the mouth. 

"This was a grievous injury, and nothing to take lightly. The blade just barely missed killing the man. He will need time to rest before he can go anywhere." The doctor asserted. By this time it seemed that Sherlock was not listening as he paced back and forth. Mycroft adjusted his suit sleeves and dismissed the surgeon, turning to his brother and collecting his umbrella. If you were in the hospital corridor at that moment you might have thought you saw a man in a sharp suit truly caring about another, but the British government would certainly convince you otherwise. 

"I have to go Sherlock, keep me updated. And please don't do anything foolish." Mycroft said as he turned to leave. 

"I think I have made a huge mistake." Came Sherlock's response. 

Mycroft stilled for a moment, then turned to look his younger brother up and down, noting the blossoming frailty in his disposition. "I have no doubt of that, but I am not quite sure what you are referring to." Mycroft said as he drew closer. It only took Sherlock a few seconds to look up, but in that time Mycroft understood alarmingly well what he had meant. Sherlock breathed in to speak, but Mycroft cut him off with a hand to his shoulder. "Ah, so you finally told John your feelings. Did he claim heterosexuality, or were you able to get a leg over?" The older man asked with a bit of a smile. Sherlock simply looked away, but the lack of pain displayed in his brow gave away the answer. "Good for you. Don't let this one go, brother." Mycroft offered as he turned and finally left the building.

Sherlock walked down the hallway to the front desk and retrieved the room number he required before getting in the elevator and finding his way to John's bed. When he found the room he took a few deep breaths before entering, knowing that the sight of Watson injured might be too much. He crept into the room, pointedly looking at the floor whilst doing so. His shoes squeaked against the linoleum as he moved. 

The room was filled with other noises as well, letting all who were there know that danger was afoot. The ventilator breathed loudly and the heart monitor beeped warning. The whole room seemed to be concerned with John's status. 

Sherlock found a molded plastic chair next to the bed and sat, winding his hand into John's. John didn't stir. It was physically painful to see John like this. Sherlock had spent many a night sitting cross legged on the floor next to John's bed while he slept. He loved to watch the doctor as his slumber erased years from his brow. Even when nightmares took hold John managed to look menacing, not weak. Now, however, with the color removed from his face he looked frail. Sherlock wasn't sure that he would ever see John look frail. It seemed like such an impossible thing for John, _his_ John, to look this way. 

He took a breath and spoke softly to his sleeping friend. "I'm sorry John. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you." And with that truth Sherlock cried for the first time since he was a child. The tears ran down his face and fell on his hands, now clutched around John's....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter because i'm really busy with work. Enjoy!


	4. brotherly love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets some help from his bother.

The next few days were hell. Sherlock didn't sleep but a few hours, and his vision began to blur. John lay silent and still, seeming to be in a trance. The truth was that his body was struggling to repair itself. Sherlock stayed by his side the entire time. Lestrade came by, bringing with him no news in the search for John's assailant. Then he left, and Sherlock was once again alone with his thoughts. 

On the third day John woke for a short time. It was only long enough for him to look confused and say the name Sebastian before falling back into a fitful sleep. Sherlock sat with his mouth hanging open for a few long minutes before gaining his composure. He then stood and walked from the building out into the night. He walked for half a mile before he was able to call his brother. 

"Sebastian....Sebastian Moran." Was all he said before hanging up. 

On the other end of the line Mycroft was already typing away on his computer. He let the phone fall from his ear as he pressed the call button for Anthea (or whatever she was calling herself this week). She rushed into the room, avoiding obstacles without looking up from her phone. 

"Get me our most discreet field agent. I want the man who stabbed John Watson, and I want him alive." He said, reaching down and picking his mobile from the floor. 

Anthea left the room without saying a word, and with that the search for Sebastian Moran began. 

\----- 

Sherlock walked briskly back to the hospital and made his way to John's room. When he got there he found a large arrangement of black lilies by the bed. The card read S. M.. Sherlock blanched. 

Sherlock ran from the room into thew hall and began shouting for assistance. Several nurses aides came to him to see what the fuss was about. 

"The lilies. Where did they come from?" He implored. 

None of the attendants knew, so Sherlock stormed down to the front desk. When he got there he pulled out Lestrade's badge and mustered up enough self control not to look mad. 

"I need to see all of your camera footage from outside John Watson's private room." He said. 

Once in the small security room on the top floor Sherlock settled into the seat closest to the computer and found the footage from a half hour ago. Surely enough there was a man in a delivery outfit entering John's room with the bouquet. As he exited the room he took off his hat and looked up at the camera. The bastard winked. The fucking bastard winked at the camera. The fucking bastard winked at Sherlock, then calmly strode off. 

\----- 

Mycroft was sitting calmly at his desk when a sharp knock came at the door. He stood as two men came in dragging another in handcuffs. The man was at least six foot five and had a scar over one eye. He was bleeding from his nose. The two men pushed him to his knees. 

"Thank you gentlemen. I won't be needing your assistance any longer, you know the way out." Mycroft said, making his way over to the man he knew to be Sebastian Moran.

The man looked up at Mycroft with a crooked grin. "I suppose I don't get my one phone call." He said.

"No, I'm sure you understand why. This is no time for diplomacy Mr. Moran." Mycroft answered, leaning down to grip the man by the chin. "You've gone and done something foolish, you see. You've hurt something I hold dear, and now you must be punished for your misdeed."

Mycroft stood and made his way to the door, locking it and grabbing his umbrella. He turned and struck Moran with the metal handle, causing a spurt of blood to hit his desk. He then took the handle, turning it sideways, and removed the hidden dagger. He took the weapon and slit Moran's throat, watching as the man sputtered and crumpled to the ground.

Mycroft went to his desk, hit the intercom button and spoke. "Anthea dear, I've made a bit of a mess. Send in the cleaners."

He then took out his mobile and took a photo of the dead body on the floor before leaving the room. Once out of the building he slipped into the black sedan that was waiting for him at the kerb, and told the driver to take him to the hospital.

\-----

Sherlock sat next to John's sleeping form and devised a plan to capture Moran. He was still in his mind palace when his brother arrived.

"I said, Sherlock, I have something to show you." Mycroft spoke loudly.

"I don't care, Mycroft. I'm busy, go bother someone else for a change." Sherlock hissed, not looking up from John.

"I really think you'll want to see this." Mycroft replied.

Sherlock huffed and said, "I doubt that greatly. Now if you would just leave, I need to..." His voice trailed off as he looked at the mobile screen then held in front of him. He cleared his throat and looked up at his brother.

"Thank you." He said.


End file.
